The Tank
by Delenn
Summary: NEW: Sep 18, 2005. “It’s always cold. Then the first gurgles slip up the nose, eyes, head… At nights, it sneaks up on them. It’s like a void.” PreDark Angel. 894 words.


**Disclaimer: Big shock, I don't own 'em! I'm just messing around, stealin' 'em, cause I can't even rent 'em! How sad is that? So if you still feel compelled to sue, well, you have to have like **no** life! **

Author's Notes: Okay, this one requires some explanation, I know. It's not from Max's POV, and not from Alec's – it's joint. That's right, this is a shared-experience piece, where the POV more-or-less switches. But it does have plot – granted, it's pre-show plot, but still. So be a sport and read it anyway, okay? And then you can rant or rave to me in e-mail. Isn't that so much better then just stopping right now? I mean you already went to the trouble of clicking the link and everything! 

Story Notes: Well, judging by the title, you can assume that this is back in the good ole' days of Manticore. In The Tank. And, you're right, it is. Kinda a conceptual piece, as most people find water synonymous with comforting/soothing themes, and this is the exact opposite. Lydecker was an evil bastard, but then, we knew that. 

Summary: "It's always cold. Then the first gurgles slip up the nose, eyes, head… At nights, it sneaks up on them. It's like a void." Pre-Dark Angel. 894. 

Rated: R 

Feedback: Love it? Hate it? Go on, you'll be my best friend! See, all you have to do is click the little link! 

Date Started/Finished: September 18th, 2005

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The Tank   
By Delenn

The first splash of iced water is always the most shocking, but not the worst. It's a progressive experience – the careful buildup of fear and panic. The chill that seeps into the bone and never quite manages to leave. 

It's always cold. Some abstract (everything is abstract but the water, rising steadily, climbing with the fear) concept about shocking the body and forcing it to work twice as hard. 

They're watching too, of course, waiting for motions of struggle. A fleeting glance could spell doom. Just look straight ahead – ignore the wet grip (up to the chest now) slithering against the body. 

Nearby, lined up in a row, the harsh breathing of the others is obvious. It would be so easy to look, to turn just slightly, and catch a last glimpse. But He's there, above, watching – hand on that little button. 

Not everyone makes it. 

Sometimes, at first, they'd release the chains. Mutter about inadequacies and let the struggling one flounder to the surface. Now, though, it's more demanding. Longer, harder, colder – no more room for the weaklings. 

If she thinks about it, and she does (when the water's crawling up her neck), the sting of pain and fear nearly blindsides her – wondering which sibling will be lost to the cold darkness tonight. 

Then the first gurgles slip up the nose, eyes, head, and stray thought becomes the enemy. Focus, or it'll be him pulling at the chains, fighting but unable to get away. 

It's like a void. 

And a contest at the same time, one that neither can win. If it's not enough, not strong enough, there's the darkness. If the void doesn't consume, there's the next time, the next limit that someone won't be able to reach. Because they're expendable. 

There's a delusion that she favors, as her throat constricts and heart slows (a delusion because there's no escape from this prison, seeping into pores and past locked chains). One where there's an accident that lets her free, and she surges up, catches Him by surprise and snaps His neck before another person is sacrificed to the depths. 

But somehow, even in the fantasy, the consequences for such a violation are always more horrible than can be stood. And he's a good little soldier – he stands all he can, all they can throw at him. 

At nights, it sneaks up on them. Something smooth constricting around her throat, her insides, until she wakes – gasping – unable to breathe the standard air. The taste of it fills her up with revulsion until she's half convinced that she could breathe in the ice. That the loss would be worth it. 

No one ever knows how long it will last. Each time, it's different – harder. The cold seeps in until the only option screams (open up, let it in) and screams for release. 

There's no sound though. Only bubbles to capture his voice and smother it in the oppressive depths. And Him, staring down at a little watch that could (any time now) signal their doom. 

She wonders (even though it's so hard to think, the darkness closing in inch by inch) what will happen when it isn't enough. Will they all be surrendered to the darkness, and He can begin afresh? They're never enough (never good enough, or why would they be here, stuck in the liquid death) for Him. His words ripple through this world, while theirs are swallowed up. 

There's nothing to do but endure it, though. Knowing that is one thing (in the stillness), but staring straight at the gray-tinted-blue metal encasing them, while the reverberations and ripples around him mask the screams of a brother (pulling at his chains, clawing at the gray)… 

The weight tightens while everything moves and… and then it's still again. 

The stillness is worse. Because they all know that the still, wet, cold means the darkness has come. And a sickening, terrible, lump of hope. As the darkness recedes, so does the wet clench on her, and soon it will be gone. 

Just a little longer now. 

Staring at the metal and hearing Him shake His head – waiting for his finger to move towards the other button, the one they can't see. Waiting for it all to be over (it burns now, fire and hot and cold and threatening to take in great gasping breaths that will only make it worse). 

There's a harsh clang, more ripples and waves across his vision, and then the chains fall away effortlessly. Floating there, mocking him. 

But the rush is demanding, the blackness edging closer, and she reaches forward, even though she doesn't want to because she knows its what He is waiting for. It's a defeat, and that's nearly the worst part. 

Breaking the surface, he tries to breathe in, shudders of air, and (for a moment) he thinks it doesn't work. Then the burning flairs up, and he can stare, wide-eyed, at the chains, The Tank, Him. 

When she crawls out (shaking still) and hears His praise, it's worse than the stillness. Retreating back into The Soldier. Good job. Sir, yes, sir. 

Each time, the chill is colder and the darkness is closer. 

He wonders how long until it swallows him whole. 

She dreams half-imaginings of escaping the ice that follows everywhere. 

Swimming in their vision, Lydecker's face against the blue-gray of The Tank walls. Trapped. 


End file.
